


Siren Song

by overlordy



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Alfred is fucked up, Anal Sex, Gore, M/M, Male Hunter OC, Violence, kind of a sequel to blue, sex next to a corpse, this whole thing is fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:51:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overlordy/pseuds/overlordy
Summary: You understand, don’t you? It sings and pulls, but I am not like my master, I cannot resist it for long. Please, distract me from its temptation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> boy howdy this is some weird shit but HERE WE ARE.

As Jeremiah appears before the lantern the scent of fresh blood threatens to overwhelm him. He staggers as the thick smell invades his mind, like taking a blow from a beast, dizzying in its potency. He gasps and fights away the scarlet fog creeping at the edges of his mind. All the blood he drenched himself in before never contained such strength. It’s as if hundreds of beasts all lay dead at his feet. 

He stumbles from the lantern, vision fuzzy, and casts his eyes about for the source of the smell. He spots Alfred, arms outstretched, over a mangled pile of flesh where Queen Annalise normally would sit.

Oh.

“Master, look! I’ve done it, I’ve done it!” Alfred exclaims, his voice tinny and distant under his enormous golden ardeo. A trace of madness lines his voice, no doubt overwhelmed by the compelling scent of the Queen’s corrupted blood. “I smashed and pounded and grounded this rotten siren into fleshy pink pulp,” he growls.

Jeremiah keeps his distance, watching the blood-spattered Alfred with wary eyes. “There, you filthy monstrosity,” Alfred hisses, his voice warped by a hatred Jeremiah has never before seen. “What good’s your immortality now! Try stirring up trouble in this sorry state. All mangled and twisted, with every inside on the outside for all the world to see!” Alfred laughs, an unhinged and cold sound, and Jeremiah readies his cleaver. Who knows when the executioner would turn on him. Movements cautious, he steps towards Alfred.

Alfred turns towards him and halts him in his tracks, “Oh, you, is it?” he breathes, the polished surface of his helm mottled with slick red. “Look at this!” Jeremiah would really rather not. “Thanks to you, I’ve done it.” The hunter frowns to himself. When he delivered Alfred the invitation to Cainhurst, he knew he would undoubtedly attack the Queen, but not to this… degree. Though he should expect such brutality from an executioner.

“Well? Isn’t it wonderful? Now master can be canonized as a true martyr.” Jeremiah resists the urge to roll his eyes or sigh as Alfred begins to laugh once more, his voice softer than before as the effects of his rage begin to wear away. “I’ve done it, I have.”

Alfred must find this all very amusing, as laughter bubbles its way forth once more, shaking well-armored shoulders with mirth. Jeremiah grimaces, his mind swimming in the thick stench of blood, and turns towards the Queen of the Vilebloods- or what’s left of her. He keeps Alfred in the corner of his eye, though the executioner has yet to try and kill him. The mangled lump of flesh in the chair seems to pulse as he steps toward it. The scent of blood grows stronger, penetrating his facial cover and invading his senses.

“Foul, isn’t it?” Alfred asks, no doubt observing the way Jeremiah shrinks back from the smell. “It’s all bad blood. Even when mashed into bits she still sinks her vile claws in.”

For once, Jeremiah agrees. He’s about had enough of this whole Vileblood business. He turns away from the Queen’s corpse, if it could even be referred to as such. As he stalks down the steps, eager to escape the alluring pull of the Queen’s blood, a hand catches his bicep. He stops, staring straight ahead, refusing to look back even as Alfred’s grip tightens to bruising strength. Jeremiah fights off the tension rising to his muscles. He's ready to shove the teeth of his cleaver into Alfred's gut if the executioner so much as twitched his fingers around that enormous wheel of his.

He hears two distinct thumps and twists around, cleaver held high and ready to imbed itself into soft flesh, but another hand catches his wrist before he has the chance. Alfred stares at him, his ardeo removed, placed with care upon the carpet beside his massive gore-covered wheel. Jeremiah grits his teeth and tries to wrench out of Alfred’s clutches, but the executioner is stronger than he looks. The pain of Alfred’s grasp and the ever-present scent of blood threaten to throw him into a frenzy. The hunter grunts, strains, and readies himself to send his knee into Alfred’s gut, but the executioner stoops forward and his teeth find his face cover, drag it down his face and past his lips. The action stuns him enough that he has no mind to resist as Alfred kisses him.

Everything around him screeches to an abrupt halt. Alfred’s lips are soft, softer than they have any right to be, but he presses against Jeremiah with brutish force that belies the satin of his mouth. Jeremiah, against all better judgement, sinks into the touch from a fellow hunter who, admittedly, he always found attractive. He inhales, tastes sweet copper on Alfred’s tongue, and the blood pools in his head and mottles his senses. Alfred groans against him, bites at his lips, fits their bodies together until Jeremiah can feel the thudding of Alfred’s heart even through the thick layers of his garb. He also feels a distinct hardness pressing against his thigh. The realization startles Jeremiah out of the kiss and he squirms away, placing a great distance between him and the panting executioner, making his escape to the lantern.

“Wait!” Alfred gasps, loud and desperate enough to stop his hand inches from the lantern. “Please, stay. I need you to stay.”

Jeremiah stares at the grotesque faces of the little Messengers. “Why?” he asks. Alfred falls silent, undoubtedly surprised by the unfamiliar sound of his voice.

“The Vileblood, as much as I loathe to say it, tempts me with its siren song. You understand, don’t you? It sings and pulls, but I am not like my master, I cannot resist it for long. Please, distract me from its temptation.”

In his panic Jeremiah had forgotten about the swirling scent of blood. He grew accustomed to it, its “siren song” muted and lacking its previous potency. He casts a cold look over his shoulder, his lip curled and disbelief on his tongue, but Alfred’s heavy-lidded and longing gaze silences him before he speaks. The executioner licks his lips- Jeremiah follows the motion- and trails his hands down his front, blood and bits of Queen catching on his gloves. The hunter remains rooted in place as Alfred unknots his sash and pushes his cloak off his shoulders, then follows his tunic. Jeremiah’s mouth runs drier than Old Yharnam as Alfred undresses in front of him.

Standing bare before him, the executioner gazes up at him through pale lashes and bites his lip. The hunter rakes his eyes along Alfred’s toned body, taking in his fair skin and fairer scars, dotted in a familiar pattern around muscular thighs. All Jeremiah has to do is lean forward another inch or two and he’ll be gone, won’t have to deal with whatever the hell  _ this  _ is, but Alfred’s eyes…

They’re blue. Darker, but still blue, echoing in his memory.

He’s not strong enough to resist that particular pull. He sets his jaw and drops his cleaver, storming towards Alfred with unrestrained frustration. Alfred groans as Jeremiah grips his hips and presses flush against him, the worn leather of his garb running along supple skin. He kisses Alfred this time, though it’s more of a battle than anything. He bites at lips until he tastes thick metal against his tongue, and Alfred’s hands fumble with the multitude of clasps keeping on his armor. He catches the executioner’s wrists and shakes his head. “Leave it on,” he orders, and Alfred nods, his hands instead palming Jeremiah through his trousers.

“The throne,” Alfred breathes against his neck. He nods and Alfred places his hands on the hunter’s chest, pushing him until the backs of his knees hit the other throne, thankfully unoccupied by a pulsing lump of flesh, and he falls into it. He tries not to think of the remains of the Queen just to his left. Instead he inhales, deeply, allowing the blood to sink in and overwhelm his senses, setting a pleasant haze just under his skin. He sighs as skilled fingers undo his belt and pull his cock free of his trousers. Alfred strokes him, spreads some sort of slick substance over his skin. He hopes it isn’t blood, shivers at the disgusting, yet still somehow arousing thought, and doesn’t look down to see whatever Alfred used as lubricant.

He closes his eyes as Alfred climbs over him and braces himself against the arms of the ornate throne. The executioner sinks down with little formalities, encompassing Jeremiah in tight heat, enough to steal the breath from his chest and send lightning bolts of pleasure through his skin. Alfred pants in his ear and wastes no time, bouncing his hips to an inaudible rhythm. The hunter curls his fingers into soft blond hair, tugs sharply, and when Alfred breathes  _ Master _ against his neck he pretends he doesn’t hear.

* * *

 

Finding Alfred’s corpse in the Cathedral Ward came as no surprise. He looked around for any sign of a struggle, willing to avenge Alfred to whatever beast caught him unawares, but all he found was a bloody knife embedded into his gut and a Caryll rune. Alfred had a blissful expression on his pale face.

It was probably for the best.

He makes his way to the Queen’s chamber after discovering Alfred curled up and dead. The effort to revive her was almost more trouble than it was worth, but yet, against all reason, she is whole once more, staring absently at the empty throne beside her. The scent of blood lingers in the air. The hunter kneels before her, and only then does she turn.

“Well, well,” she purrs, amused and knowing. “Thou wearest a second face. It matters not. Our flesh is undying. Speak thy mind.” Jeremiah stares up at her, humbled. She laughs, a sweet sound against his ears, and holds out her hand. He takes it and drinks deep of her blood, feels the spreading corruption burn beneath his skin.

“Now, thou’rt too a Vileblood.”


End file.
